


Helpless to a Red Marauder

by triedunture



Series: Leaves of Grass [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Declarations Of Love, Fallen Castiel, Guns, Human Castiel, M/M, Psychic Abilities, Sam Winchester's Demonic Powers, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-08
Updated: 2011-10-08
Packaged: 2017-10-24 10:15:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/262345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/triedunture/pseuds/triedunture
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part 3 in the <a href="http://triedunture.livejournal.com/tag/spn%20leaves%20of%20grass">Leaves of Grass</a> series. After ridding himself of the souls from Purgatory, all Cas wants is to be a better human, sleep naked next to Dean, learn to shoot a stupid gun, and get his own Winchester-brand anti-demon tattoo. But with Sam's weird mental powers, Bobby's not-so helpful advice, and Meg's bloody rampage, things get complicated pretty quickly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Helpless to a Red Marauder

_**Supernatural fic: Helpless to a Red Marauder (Leaves of Grass part 3)**_  
Title: Helpless to a Red Marauder  
Author: [](http://triedunture.livejournal.com/profile)[**triedunture**](http://triedunture.livejournal.com/)  
Rating: R  
Pairing: Dean/Cas  
Characters: Dean, Castiel, Sam, Bobby, Meg  
Beta: [](http://jihime47.livejournal.com/profile)[**jihime47**](http://jihime47.livejournal.com/), who is a patient goddess  
Spoilers: through 6.22, AU after season 6  
Warnings: some violence, angst  
Word Count: 10,000  
Summary: Part 3 in the [Leaves of Grass](http://triedunture.livejournal.com/tag/spn%20leaves%20of%20grass) series. After ridding himself of the souls from Purgatory, all Cas wants is to be a better human, sleep naked next to Dean, learn to shoot a stupid gun, and get his own Winchester-brand anti-demon tattoo. But with Sam's weird mental powers, Bobby's not-so helpful advice, and Meg's bloody rampage, things get complicated pretty quickly.

<><><><>

  
The gunshot echoes here in the valley between the dry yellow hills. It rings out over and over until it's lost in the whistling wind. Several yards away, on top of the old wood and wire fence, the row of cans remains upright, unmoved.

Castiel grunts and brings the pistol up again. He closes one eye, then forces himself to open it, to line up the shot correctly. What had Dean called it? Depth perception. Something he'd never had to think about when his perception encompassed more than eyes could see.

He squeezes off another shot, but it misses too. The cans waver just a little in the wind. The Natural Ice looks especially smug to Castiel.

"Jesus," Dean comments to his brother, his arms folded across his chest. The Winchesters are standing in the shade of a rusty tractor, watching him from a distance. "I thought you said he could shoot."

Sam takes a swig from a gallon jug of water. "I said he shot a guy once. But that was point-blank."

"Christ. Maybe we should get bigger cans?"

"I can hear you, you know," Cas calls out, checking his gun's clip.

"We know," the brothers call back in unison.

Castiel considers training his gun on more suitable targets, but discards the idea. After all, despite their good-natured needling, the Winchesters have made life as a human somewhat bearable. And today is a good day.

It's good to see Sam outside instead of locked away in the house. It's good to see Dean like this, the hard lines of his shoulders softening toward relaxation. It's good that they can all be together, with the sun setting bright and orange over the Dakota hills.

Castiel's aim, on the other hand, is not so good.

He draws a bead, fires again. One tin can on the end of the row wobbles back and forth, but ends up righting itself after a breathless moment.

"Winged it, at least," Dean shouts over to him, and Castiel sighs, a mixture of frustration warring with fondness.

It's been almost two months since he fell, since Dean saved him from himself and brought him back to earth, graceless and terrified. Two months since the wall in Sam's mind was torn down by Castiel himself. A little less than two months since Dean touched him in the dead of night. Cas is just now learning to make himself useful, and this includes firearms training.

"I don't like guns," Castiel declares. He examines the weapon, smelling of oil and combustion. It reminds him too much of holy fire. "I'd rather have a knife."

"If you can't shoot, you can't hunt with us," Dean says. "Bottom line."

Sam is more encouraging. He stuffs his hands in his jean pockets and calls out, "Come on, Cas. Just keep at it. Nobody's an expert right off the bat."

"I was," Dean mutters, his eyebrow cocked.

Sam rolls his eyes. "Nobody but _Dean_ is an expert right off the bat, because of course Dean was born with his friggin' forty-five in his hand."

Dean reaches out a long, lazy arm to whack his brother in the shoulder, and Sam smacks him on the bicep. They bicker back and forth about who's the better shot, and Castiel stands there in the dust and watches them. He wishes he had a way to stop time and keep this moment somewhere in his chest, nestled between his beating heart and working lungs.

Just a few weeks ago, they weren't nearly this carefree. Nights were hard and days were worse. Sam was still locked away upstairs, not moving beyond the hallway bathroom. He would stare off into space for hours at a time, lost in the twisted corridors of his mind, or perhaps lost in conversation with the other half of himself, the half that Castiel had dragged from hell.

Just a few weeks ago, Dean was fraying at the edges trying to keep everyone afloat. Even before they started sleeping next to each other on the threadbare oriental rug, Cas had heard Dean struggling against invisible enemies in the middle of the night, sweat on his brow, his eyes clenched tight. Before they became whatever it is they are to each other, Cas had felt helpless in the face of these nightmares, watching from his nest on the sofa as Dean thrashed on the floor below him. Now Cas can reach across the shadows and smooth a hand against Dean's cheek, whispering to him quietly until he settles back into sleep. Now they both rest a little easier at night, and moments like this one are more than possible.

Dean's eyes leave Sam and catch sight of Cas, who is still trying to engrave the picture they make into his memory. Dean seems to know what Cas is thinking; his wide grin narrows to a pleased smirk. "Ready to pack it in for today?" he asks.

Cas looks down at the gun hanging uselessly in his hand. "One more try," he says.

When he misses again, Dean doubles over laughing and Sam seems to be fighting to keep a straight face, but it's worth it.

<><><><>

The sun sets on them as they walk from their makeshift firing range back to Bobby Singer's house. Castiel trudges into the kitchen with two competing feelings worming away at his heart. On the one hand, his complete and total failure to master something as simple as shooting a semi-automatic has put the Winchester brothers in a good mood, which makes Cas happy. On the other hand, he won't be allowed to hunt with Dean because of it, and that makes Cas feel awful.

Bobby has taken a few cases in the last three months, and every time he's left the house with his gear bag slung over his shoulder, Dean has watched him go, green eyes envious. Cas once asked Dean if he wanted to go with Bobby, but Dean said, "Nah, I'm fine taking a little vacation." But Cas knows the real reason: he is reluctant to leave Sam and Cas alone.

Cas leans back against the kitchen counter, his hands braced on the Formica top, and stares up at the buzzing halo-shaped light bulb in the center of the ceiling. Sam and Dean bang through the screen door a few moments later, still chuckling. Sam takes one look at Castiel standing there in the kitchen and immediately turns back, saying over his shoulder, "Think I'll sit on the porch, get some fresh air."

Dean wishes his brother a good night and moves toward the fridge. He's still visibly pleased with the events of the day and Sam's progress. He is beautiful like this, and Cas feels something like a sparrow in his heart winging wildly to and fro. "Want a beer?" he asks Cas, reaching for the fridge.

"I can still fight," Cas tells him, and Dean's smile slips off his face. His hand drops from the fridge door.

"Yeah. Yeah, ‘course you can," Dean says. "But some monsters can only be brought down with bullets, and that's just a fact. I ain't taking you on a hunt until you're ready." He searches Cas's face, then tips his chin toward the hallway. "Want to go upstairs?"

Cas nods, pushing away from the counter, relieved that Sam had given them a moment alone.

Sam had given the upstairs bedroom to them a week ago. It had happened so quickly. They'd been sitting at the kitchen table eating oatmeal for breakfast. Sam had suddenly placed his spoon down on the table and said, "You know, it's stupid for one guy to be hogging the only free bedroom."

For a sickening moment, Cas had thought that Sam meant to share the room with his brother, or worse, that Sam knew what Dean and Cas did with each other in the dark. But no.

"You two could switch off if you want," Sam continued in a bored voice, "between the bed and the floor. The carpet up there is better than that ratty old rug, anyway." It was a pointed indication that Sam either didn't know about them, or didn't want them to know that he knew.

"Where would you sleep?" Dean's voice was rock-steady, which Cas found very impressive.

"I don't mind the couch," Sam had said, taking a huge bite of oatmeal.

Cas hadn't even been consulted. That night, he and Dean slept in a real bed with soft, age-flattened pillows. Dean had held his hips against the mattress and coaxed him to completion with his lips and his tongue and his voice.

So yes, Cas likes it upstairs, and he appreciates that he and Dean have a place they can go at times like this, when Cas is feeling too raw and human. It's their room, and even though it's shared, it still belongs to Cas, and he's never had anything to call his own.

Dean locks their bedroom door behind them. Cas crawls under the quilt, kicking off his boots but not bothering to shed his thirft store clothes. Dean joins him, and for a long hour, possibly more, they lie there, Cas's head pillowed on Dean's chest to better listen to the steady motions of his heart.

Cas wonders if maybe Dean needs these moments just as badly as he does, but he won't ask, in case the answer is no.

<><><><>

At night Dean sleeps nude, splayed out flat on his back, arms and legs thrown wide. He takes up more than half the bed, and he hogs more than his share of the blankets, but Castiel doesn't mind. He likes the way Dean claims the space, because he's in it, and he thinks maybe this means Dean is claiming him as well.

Dean is fast asleep. Softly snoring, even. Not so for Cas. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees himself stepping through the door to Purgatory. Every time he closes his eyes, he thinks "if only I had" or "why didn't I." He replays his downfall again and again in his mind, wondering which moment was the one he should have changed. His brain, his insufficient, human brain, won't stop spinning in a circle.

He had spoken to Bobby Singer about this just the other day. The old man had caught him sitting on the porch and remarked on his pensive look. Actually, his exact words were, "If thoughts were shit, you'd have a full outhouse, I bet."

"I was wondering what I could ever do to make up for what I've done."

"Oh, hell, boy." Bobby had settled his dust-streaked cap firmly on his head with a kind of finality. "There ain't a man alive who don't ask himself that at least once in his life."

Bobby means to be kind, but this answer is not at all satisfying to Castiel, because he is certain no human has ever walked into Purgatory, stolen a million souls, and declared himself god. There can be no atoning for that, and it keeps him up at night.

He glances over at Dean, who is awash in silvery light from the half-curtained window. Cas sighs and slips out of bed, tugging on a pair of boxer shorts and unlocking the door. He pads downstairs with the idea of drinking some milk, which Dean says helps with insomnia, but he pauses on the stairs when he hears a thump in the living room.

A light is on downstairs; Sam must still be awake, though it's very late. Cas peers over the banister and into the room. Sam is sitting on the sofa, still dressed in his jeans and black V-neck sweater, his hands resting on his knees. His eyes are closed. There is another thump, but Cas doesn't see where it came from.

"Sam?" he asks, quiet and low.

Sam's eyes open wide, his mouth open in a surprised O. "Cas! I thought you were asleep."

"I heard something." Castiel reaches the bottom of the stairs and peers into the dark hallway. "An animal under the porch maybe?"

"Maybe," Sam agrees readily. "Bobby's got possums on the property. They're harmless. No big deal."

Castiel nods, his gaze traveling to the far corner of the room. A handful of books are laying on the floor, their spines cracked and pages aflutter. There is an empty space on the bookshelf on the wall near Sam, which Cas finds odd.

"Would you like some milk?" he asks Sam, since it seems like the polite thing to do.

Sam opens and closes his mouth twice before settling on, "Sure." They sit in the kitchen and sip at tall glasses of cool milk, watching each other over the rims.

"So," Sam finally says, his voice quiet among the night noises of crickets, "how is Dean handling your touching thing?"

Cas curses himself for ever seeking Sam's advice on the matter. He considers what Dean might say in a situation like this, when a small white lie is necessary. Cas is certain Dean wouldn't want his brother knowing such personal details. He takes a big gulp of milk. "I've decided not to discuss it with him," he says.

Sam's eyebrows arch high on his forehead. He knows Cas is lying, and Cas can't do anything but return his gaze.

"Okay," Sam says, and it's resigned and a little amused.

"I'm better now," Cas maintains. "I believe it was just— Bobby calls it getting my sea legs."

"Yeah." Sam drains the rest of his glass in one long swallow. "That was probably it."

<><><><>

Cas tries to go back to sleep after drinking milk with Sam, but he doesn't do anything but stare at the ceiling and Dean's rising, falling chest. So he gets up in the still-dark, rolls himself into some jeans and a tee, pulls on the boots Bobby had bought him from the local thrift store, and finds the gun Dean has set aside for him.

He's hit two out of the ten cans by the time the sun has crested the hill like a bright slice of fruit. When the second can hits the dust, he hears Dean's footfalls in the scrub brush behind him.

"Getting there," Dean mumbles into his steaming mug. The scent of coffee brushes past Cas; of all the senses, scent has been the most difficult to get a handle on. The coffee doesn't smell appetizing, but it smells like Dean in the morning, and that makes Cas hungry. The reaction seems to lack all reason.

"How do humans do it?" Cas asks under his breath, not for the first time. He turns back to his targets and sights one up again. Dean either doesn't hear him or knows he doesn't expect an answer.

Another shot, another miss. Cas huffs in frustration and drops his hand to his side. "I need a knife." He misses the feel of a blade in his hand, the surety of purpose that it brings. He doesn't feel connected to this gun or its bullets.

"You need to be ready for anything." Another sip of that dark-smelling coffee. "Or at least, ready for some things."

Cas is about to tell Dean about Sam, about the books he saw scattered on the floor last night. But he can't figure out why it's bothering him, and besides, Dean worries too much anyway, so he says nothing.

"Teach me breakfast again," he says instead, which is their running joke, a thing Cas has never had before. Teach me tying shoes. Teach me guns. Teach me yawning. Teach me all the human things, Dean. Cas wonders what he'll look like when he's done learning all there is to know about being mortal from Dean Winchester. Will he be a perfect copy of Dean himself, or will he learn just enough to be, as Bobby is so fond of saying, dangerous?

They go inside. Dean makes scrambled eggs.

<><><><>

That afternoon Dean slaps his hand on the book-covered kitchen table and declares they need to go into town. Cas needs a tattoo.

Cas looks up from the sink, where he's washing the dishes. He tips his head to the side in acknowledgment, careful not to betray how hopeful this makes him feel. To have a mark put on his chest, the kind of mark the Winchesters wear, feels right. It feels like perhaps he's starting to belong.

He hurries to put away the last dry plate.

Sam is leaning back in his chair, balanced on the back legs, a perplexed look on his face. "Dean, can't that wait?"

"Better safe then sorry," Dean says, grabbing his jacket off a peg and putting it on. "You coming?"

Cas frowns. Sam has not left Bobby's property since his wall came down. He looks uncomfortable at the thought. "You do not need to accompany us," he tells Sam. He looks at Dean, wipes his hands on a rag. "Does he?"

Dean shrugs. He's fiddling with a small digital camera. "Up to him. Sammy, how the hell do you work this thing? I want a photo so the tattoo guy doesn't mess it up."

Sam unfolds himself from the small chair and takes the camera from his brother. "It's only got like, one button. Geez." The device makes a chirping noise and flits into life. Then, to Cas he says, "You might want someone in the room with you. Dean's afraid of needles. Can't look at them. He'll puke."

Dean scoffs. "No, I won't." But the way his throat works, Castiel can see it's all bravado and no truth.

"Why would you be afraid of needles?" Cas asks him. "They're so small. It's not as if the procedure is going to be uncomfortable." The brothers turn to look at him with varying degrees of 'are you kidding me?' splashed across their faces. Cas falters. "Is it going to be uncomfortable?"

"Uh." Sam looks to his brother, who has nothing but a wide-eyed stare for him. "It's— it can sting a little," he manages.

"It hurts like a bitch," Dean amends. "But you get used to it."

"Did you... puke?" Cas asks gently.

Dean rolls his eyes up to the ceiling. "I just don't like seeing it go in, okay? Gives me the willies. If I could have gotten the tattoo on my back like I wanted, I would've been hunky dory."

"But you have to get it over your heart," Sam says firmly. "That's where it's most effective against demons." He smiles a little, remembering. "Dean kept his eyes closed the whole time."

"Not the _whole_ time," Dean mumbles.

Cas catches Sam's gaze. "It would be a great help to me if you came with us, Sam." Sam pulls his mouth lower on his face, considering, and then nods. They take a photo of Dean's tattoo, stark black on his pale chest, before piling into the Impala and heading into Sioux Falls.

For a small town like Sioux, there are plenty of tattoo shops along the main street. Castiel reads their signs as they drive by, fascinated by the array of grinning skulls and grim reapers the parlors seemed to favor. "Why not any of these?" he asks as they roll by one promising sterile piercing and more.

"We have a guy," Dean answers.

Their guy turns out to be a woman, her gray hair flecked with a rainbow riot of colors. She rises from her seat behind the counter as they enter her shop, her black lace dress clinking with beads.

"Another one, huh?" she says to Dean. "How many brothers you got?"

"I'm not—" Castiel starts.

"Just the three of us," Dean interrupts. "Can you fit him in?"

The woman looks around the empty shop blandly before saying, "Gosh, I'll try." She tips her head toward the back, gesturing to Cas. "Come on."

Sam claps a hand on Cas's shoulder, and that warm feeling, that hope, floods back into Castiel's stomach. If Sam can forgive him his sins, maybe he can atone for what he did to these boys. To the world.

The world chooses this moment to become complicated.

The door swings open with a glad chime, and Meg strides into the shop, her lip curled in derision.

"Hey there boyfriend," she purrs at Castiel. "I see you got a little makeover. Personally, I liked you better with your wings."

To her credit, the tattoo artist is the first one to react. She must know demons as well as she knows the Winchesters, because she reaches for something under the counter, a gun, Castiel supposes. Meg moves a hand, a flick of her wrist, and the older woman crashes back against the wall. Framed artwork shatters to the floor, and Castiel sees the tattoo artist's head lying at an unnatural angle, her neck broken.

"Guess you're not getting inked today, Cassie." Meg smirks.

Sam and Dean both pull their guns seconds before they, too, go flying into the glass showcases that line the parlor walls. Cas lifts a hand as if to stop the demon, but he's powerless; there's nothing he can do, and he isn't even carrying a weapon of his own.

Before he can even chastise himself for forgetting his gun, Cas finds himself flat on his back, the breath knocked from his lungs. Meg packs quite a blow, and from the look on her face, she's amused to see Cas realize it. She steps over his prone body as he wheezes for air, her boots crunching on glass. She crouches down over him, her knees on either side of his rib cage, a feral grin spreading across her lips. Sam and Dean are nowhere to be seen, and the scent of blood tangs in the air. Cas can feel his sparrow-heart inside his chest, beating its wings uselessly. He tries to place the feeling. This is what fear must be, he thinks.

Meg taps a blunt fingernail against Cas's lips. "Ask me what I want with a broken ex-angel." Cas stares at her. "Go on," she growls, grabbing his chin.

Castiel feels his jawbone creak in her supernaturally strong grip. "What do you want, Meg?"

"Well, since you asked," she drawls. Her fingers tap lightly at his face. "See, the angels got the fuck out of Dodge, and I want to go knock, knock, knocking on Heaven's door and get myself some of those prime souls they left behind. I figured I'd babysit them until the angels come back. If they ever plan on coming back; no one's really sure what their deal is. And since _you_ ," she shakes Cas's head back and forth, "are the last thing on earth that even comes close to angelic, I'm going to need to borrow your meatsuit to get me upstairs."

"I can no longer communicate with the Host," Cas bites out. "There's no reason to think I'd be allowed back into Heaven."

A moue of disappointment glides across Meg's features. "You'll forgive me if I don't take your word for it." She licks her lips, her gaze skating over his body. "Oh, I am going to make myself at home in you. Good thing I don't mind sloppy seconds." Her eyes blink to tar-black.

A dark blur comes from the corner of Cas's eye. It's Dean, knocking Meg to the floor in a flying tackle, his fist connecting with her face a second after their joint impact.

"No means no," he growls.

And then it's Meg's hand wrapped around Dean's throat, and Cas is on his knees, clawing at Meg but unable to pry her away from her prize. "What are you doing protecting Castiel anyway, Dean?" she asks, her voice a huff of frustration. "He's not human, he's not an angel, he's not anything. The way he fucked things up, you should be thanking me for taking him off your hands."

"Just... contrary... I guess," Dean gasps out.

"Well, you're going to burn for it," Meg says, elbowing Cas off her back and tightening her grip on Dean's throat.

It's Sam's voice that finally breaks through the chaos: "Stop."

And they do. Cas feels himself freeze as if stuck in some strange tableau, but the sensation lasts only a moment. Then Meg's eyes go wide and frightened as her hands, guided by something invisible, release Dean. Cas looks up to find Sam standing among the shattered glass and broken furniture, blood dripping down the side of his face, one arm outstretched towards Meg.

His eyes are hooded, dark not in color but intent. "Don't touch my brother," he says in a steely undertone. And before Cas can blink, Meg is pinned to the wall across the room, held immobile by an unseen force.

Dean chokes air back into his lungs and lifts his watery eyes. "Sammy?"

Cas doesn't know what's happening any more than Dean does, but he collects himself enough to scramble through the debris on the parlor's floor until he finds one of the errant guns. He eyes Sam. "You've got her?"

"Yeah," Sam grunts, his hand unwavering before him.

"Good." Cas stands and takes three steps. His legs feel like water. The gun is cool as he presses it against the demon's temple.

"Cas," Sam says warningly.

"Find some other meatsuit," he says to Meg, and pulls the trigger.

<><><><>

It is silent in the Impala as they rumble down the highway. Dean is in the driver's seat, his fingers gripping and tightening, gripping and tightening on the wheel. Once in awhile, his eyes will flick up angrily to the rear-view mirror, where he'll look at Cas for a long moment, then look away.

"Dean," Sam tries, folded in on himself in the passenger seat.

Dean holds up a hand, cutting him off. "Just let me drive," he says.

Cas shifts uneasily in the backseat, trying not to get more blood on the upholstery. He had known before he shot Meg in the face that the damage would be severe, but he had not realized the sheer amount of gore that would result. Meg would either need to expend lots of energy on repairing the body she possessed, or she would be forced to vacate. Either way, Castiel had bought them some time, at least enough to get back to Bobby's in relative safety, and he does not plan on apologizing to Dean for it.

Dean slows the car at a stop sign that wavers in the wind. It's a desolate crossroads, here in the empty miles outside of town. Theirs is the only car in sight. Dean stays at the stop sign, shaking his head as if answering a silent question.

"What the hell was that back there!" he finally explodes. "You—" he turns to Sam, "—how the hell did you toss Meg around like that?"

Sam shrugs lower into his seat. "I've been trying to tell you—"

"Is it more demon blood?" Dean grinds out between his teeth.

"Oh, _yeah_ , Dean. I've been locked up in Bobby's house for months, getting high off demon blood that comes out of thin air. _No_ , it's not fucking demon blood!"

"Then what the fuck is it!?"

"I—" Sam runs a hand through his long hair, turns to stare out his window. Cas watches him closely. "I'm not sure, it's just—" He sighs through his nose.

"You've been practicing," Cas says suddenly. Both brothers turn in their seats to look at him. Cas feels himself shrink under their combined gazes, Dean's bewildered, Sam's thankful. "I heard you last night," he continues, "with the books. You were using your abilities to move them."

Sam nods, a little unsure. "Yeah. I was. I guess." He catches Dean's eyes; he had been staring at Cas' bloodied face with a look of absolute betrayal. "After you disarmed Cas, and I had to deal with the wall coming down in my mind, I don't know, I just felt like there were these parts of me that were finally coming together. And one of those parts is—well—this."

"This? What _this_?" Dean spits.

"This, Dean." Sam makes a gesture like pulling a string through the air. Dean's hand lifts from the steering wheel, and the silver band on his forefinger slips off, tumbling through the space between them in the front seat. Dean watches it open-mouthed.

"I can do things, psychic power-type things," Sam says, his eyes wide and earnest. "And it's all coming from me. Just me."

Dean's teeth clack as he slams his mouth closed. He snatches his ring out of the air and jams it back on his finger. "Do. **Not**. Use those powers again."

"But Dean—"

"No! You know where these abilities came from? From hell, Sam. From demons. They put that blood in you and it's just been boiling away in you for god-knows-how-long and I'm _sure_ those sons of bitches will figure out a way to use this against you."

"But Meg was going to kill you! And Cas. I had to stop her."

"We've stopped her before without using any freaky powers. It's not worth the risk, Sammy."

"Dean." Cas's voice is soft but forceful, slicing a path between the brothers. "Perhaps if we understood the extent of Sam's abilities—"

Dean twists his head around to face the backseat, his eyes flashing. "This is none of your business, Cas, so stay out of it."

Cas looks down at his hands in his lap, shocked into silence. As troubling as their battle with Meg was, Cas had been gratified to know he could still protect Dean and Sam, that he could still be of some use. But it appears he doesn't matter after all. The bird inside his heart flutters again, painfully tight in his chest.

"Oh Jesus." Sam clutches his own chest with a gulping breath. "Ugh. God. Dean, can you—?"

"What? Heart attack? Demon thing? Did they track you down? Can they smell your power or something?" Dean's hands hover over his brother's shoulders as if unsure how to help him.

"Nah, it's Cas." Sam looks up, his eyes darting between them. "You, uh, really hurt his feelings."

Dean's hands drop. "Oh, you read minds now too? That's just the fucking cherry on top!"

"It's more like I get impressions of emotions and— Whatever. Can you just tell him you're sorry?" Sam pleads.

"You need not apologize—" Cas tries to say, but Dean rounds on him. "Apologize? This wouldn't be happening if you hadn't torn down Death's wall, asshole! Now Sam's gone all Mistress Cleo on us and we're going to have to fix this bullshit before it gets out of hand." He stabs an accusing finger in Cas's face.

"I don't have the power to heal him," Cas says, voice now hard and dangerous. "You know that."

"Yeah, you don't have the power to do goddamn _anything_ , I get it! Fucking useless." Cas flinches further into his seat. Dean turns back to grip the steering wheel.

Cas wets his lips; he doesn't understand. Only a few hours ago, Dean had made him breakfast, had declared him ready for his own tattoo, had been kind and gentle towards him. Had that all been an untruth?

"No, Cas, please don't think that," Sam says suddenly, his voice loud in the tense silence of the car's interior. "It's just—sometimes humans say things when we're mad. It doesn't mean—" Sam struggles with his words as Dean turns his heated glare on him.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"I'm sorry, it's just Cas is feeling a little...rough."

"Yeah, well, how about you get the fuck out of Cas' head and keep your psychic powers to yourself?" Dean says sharply.

Sam ducks his head, his brow furrowed. "I'm not trying to dig around in there, I swear. I just haven't figured out how to turn it off yet." He pauses. "Sorry."

Dean's foot works rhythmically on the gas pedal, the engine revving like a growl under the hood. A distinct red flush is creeping up Dean's neck, and his throat is bobbing uselessly. He's staring straight ahead through the windshield.

Cas looks between them, his eyes settling on Sam. "You know," he says softly, "about us."

Sam sighs. "Yeah."

"That's it," Dean barks. He slams the Impala into gear and takes off with a minimum of wheel spin. "We are done talking about this."

"Dean—" Sam tries.

"Shut up."

<><><><>

Cas picks at another loose thread on the faded floral bedspread. He's been sitting in their shared bedroom for over an hour, fresh from a much-needed shower, waiting for Dean to appear. He needs Dean to tell him what happens now, because he doesn't know.

But Dean is not coming. Since they arrived back at Bobby's, Dean has locked himself away in one of the garages. Cas can hear the sounds of machinery, buzzsaws and blowtorches, echoing through the house. He can't take much more waiting, so he decides to find Dean and just get it over with.

When he finally locates the garage bay Dean is in, Sam is already there. Cas doesn't wish to intrude any more than he already has, so he hangs back, standing outside the doorway, peering into the dark recesses of the corrugated metal building, where Dean is hammering something flat and Sam is gesturing emphatically.

"Dean, will you stop for a second and just _listen_ to me?" he says.

Dean makes a show of putting down the hammer with careful deliberation. His tee shirt is soaked through, and the muscles of his arms stand out in ropey lines as he crosses them over his chest. He doesn't look at Sam, just purses his lips and waits.

Sam takes a deep breath. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you about the psychic abilities sooner. I wasn't even sure what was happening at first."

"Yeah, and I guess Cas couldn't be bothered to tell me either," Dean grunts.

"He didn't know, Dean." Sam sighs. "I'm trying my best to get a handle on them and, you've got to believe me, they are coming from a place of strength, not evil." He holds a hand, lightly cupped, in front of his chest as if trying to show his brother where his power resides. "I think—I don't know—but I think maybe I was born like this. Maybe _that's_ what Alistair was doing, finding human children who already had extraordinary powers and marking them for Lucifer's future use. I mean, doesn't that make sense? Wouldn't they want Satan to have the strongest possible vessel?"

"So if you've always had this weird psychic mojo inside you," Dean says in a low grumble, "how come you've never been able to bend spoons before now?"

Sam begins pacing the dusty shop floor, and Cas ducks a little further behind the door frame so as not to be seen. "But I did, like when I had those visions? And that time I moved a three hundred-pound chest of drawers to save you?"

"That was the demon blood."

"Was it? I don't know. All I know is I haven't tasted any blood in over a year and yet—" Sam taps a finger against his temple. "And the only thing that's changed is my wall coming down."

Dean fiddles idly with some nearby bolts, a gruff laugh on his lips. "So you think when Cas tore down the wall in your brain, it jump-started your psychic stuff? That's one hell of an unanticipated side effect of almost destroying the world."

Cas slumps against the hot corrugated wall and slides down to sit on the dusty ground. Perhaps, he thinks, now would be a good time to pack his meager possessions in a bag and leave. Inside, the brothers continue arguing.

"Dean, try to go easier on Cas, okay? He's feeling guilty enough as it is."

"Oh, is that right?"

"Yeah." Sam squints at his brother. "You don't think so?"

"I don't know, Sam." Dean stops wiping his hands on an oily rag and throws those hands in the air. "I just can't stop thinking about what Meg was saying, that's all."

"About?"

"Cas. How he's not really human."

Cas leans back flat against the exterior wall, his hand fisted in his shirt above his heart. It's beating too fast, it won't stop. He shuts his eyes and feels the sun beating down on him, hot as fire.

He hears Sam scoff. "Of course he's human. He lost his grace, he's not an angel anymore."

"Sure, but he didn't get reborn like Anna did. He just, poof, fell to earth. So if that's the case, where's his soul?"

There is a long pause during which the only thing Cas hears is the rush of blood in his own ears. Then Sam says, "You can't possibly believe he's soulless."

"Why not? Angels don't get souls, and he gave away all the souls he was snacking on, so what's left? What's inside Cas now?"

A nameless terror takes over Castiel's heart, because he has no answer to Dean's questions. He doesn't know how his existence is possible, he doesn't know what is powering this body of his, he simply does not know. He just knows Dean can't be right.

"Dean, if Cas didn't have a soul, he wouldn't be able to feel anything. Trust me, I know!"

"Yeah, and?"

There's a shuffling sound, like Sam is shifting on his feet. "You don't see it?" Sam asks his brother. Dean must be giving him that blank look that Cas knows so well, because Sam continues, "Jesus, you both deserve each other."

"What are you talking about?"

"The way Cas feels about you," Sam says gently. "He—"

"No, don't!" Cas isn't even aware of stumbling to his feet until he's inside the garage, his hands outstretched toward Sam. "Please! Please don't tell him." His chest is heaving, he can't get any air. He just knows Sam is about to do something awful and dangerous and he can't stand to see the look on Dean's face. "Don't tell him, he doesn't know, he doesn't want to know, please."

Then somehow he's on his knees on the uneven concrete, desperately focusing his eyes down on the ground where he won't have to look at Dean and see that horrified disgust in his eyes. He's still talking, babbling, he doesn't even know what he's saying anymore. Sam is there, his hand large and steady on his shoulder, his voice exasperated: "Dean, would you get your ass over here?" And Sam is gone and that familiar smell of machines and oil takes its place: Dean. His arms slip around Cas and hold him there against his sweat-soaked chest.

"'s all right, just breathe."

"I am _not_ empty inside," Cas says through his shuddering, gulping breaths.

"I know, I know." Dean's lips are in his hair. "Jesus, I know."

Sam clears his throat, and Cas raises his burning eyes to look at Dean's brother, tall and awkward, looming over them. His eyes are a dark liquid brown.

"He loves you too, Cas," Sam says quietly.

Dean's fingers tense on Cas' arms, and his glare must be a terrible thing when aimed at Sam, because Sam says, "No, fuck you, all right? You would've taken forever saying it and he needs to hear it _now_."

Cas pulls away from Dean just enough to look him in the eye, if Dean would hold his gaze for more than a moment. His green eyes are darting along the ground instead.

"Dean?" Cas asks. "Does Sam speak the truth?"

There's a beat where Dean doesn't answer, and Sam shoves his hands in his pockets, mumbles something about checking on dinner, and ambles out of the garage. His departure is not noted. Cas cups Dean's face in his hands, forcing his gaze. "Dean?"

Dean's throat works like he can't speak, but he nods, tight jerks of his head. Cas finds himself unable to form words as well, and they just sit there, puddled on the dusty floor with their arms around each other, breathing while the shadows lengthen.

<><><><>

Later they make it to bed. Dean is warm and bare under the soft old sheets, and Cas rests his cheek against his chest, his eyes drifting shut as Dean rakes a slow hand through his hair. They've been laying there, not doing or saying anything of consequence, for some time.

"Still need to teach you how to shoot from more than an inch away," Dean mumbles absent-mindedly.

"Tomorrow," Cas promises.

"Tomorrow." Dean snorts a laugh. "Tomorrow I should kick Sam's ass."

"Don't be angry with him." Cas opens his eyes and peers up at Dean. "I am glad he told me."

Dean shifts on the bed, the springs squeaking. "Just a little weird, you know. When your brother sticks his nose in like that."

"Everything about us is a little weird," Cas counters.

Dean's fingers pause at that and he hums in agreement. "Guess so."

Cas allows his hands to travel back and forth across Dean's chest, trailing along the bare skin with trembling fingers. It's not as if he wasn't able to touch Dean like this before; he had been encouraged to do so, in fact. But that had just been touching, rutting, base human relations. When the feelings had begun, when the sight of Dean's sleeping profile caused the sparrow in Cas' heart to kick against his ribs, Cas had been frightened. And the worst part was not being able to ask Dean if it was normal because he had sworn, _sworn_ he wouldn't burden Dean with his feelings.

But now he can slide his palm down Dean's bare sternum to his warm stomach, and it's all right that Dean sees the look of wonder on his face when he does it. A huge grin overtakes Dean's lips, flashing his white teeth, and when he laughs Cas laughs along with him. Knowing and being known in this way is so strange.

Footsteps clomp up the staircase and down the hallway. Either Bobby or Sam, it's hard to tell. Dean and Cas quiet down, watching the shadows pass under their bedroom door. It seems correct to not share this private thing with anyone else, but when walls are as thin as Bobby's, Cas doesn't know how that will work.

Cas looks up at Dean again. "Will it not be possible to engage in penetrative intercourse here?" he asks. They had never done such a thing in the past, but things have changed.

Dean scoots away to the other edge of the bed as fast as lightning. "Wha—? What do you mean?"

Cas props himself up on his elbow, tugging the thin blankets up his naked hips. "Perhaps I am misinformed," he says, "but I thought when two people love each other very much..." He trails off as Dean's grin returns, impolite and inappropriate. "So I _am_ misinformed then?" Cas asks archly.

"No, it's just that's a thing people say. Like, a joke. 'When two people love each other very much...'" Dean grins down at the duvet as if it shares in the joke with him. "It's what parents say to their kids when they're trying to explain sex to them."

Cas blinks. "I don't understand. Why is it funny?"

Dean waves a hand through the air, shaking his head. "Never mind, it's no big deal."

"So this is not an occasion for penetration?" Cas asks. He knows he's pressing the issue, but it seems important.

"Well—no, I mean," Dean stutters, "we don't have to. It's not, like, required or anything."

Cas fights to keep the crestfallen look off his face. "You do not wish to commune with me in that manner? I could penetrate you if you'd rather—"

"Jesus, Cas! Quit saying 'penetrate,' okay? You sound like a friggin' textbook." Dean scrubs a hand across his face.

Cas swallows. He knows he is still lacking in human subtleties, and it frustrates him, treading such delicate ground with no map. "I'm sorry," he says.

Dean sighs. "Not your fault," is his automatic response. He reaches out and grasps Cas' wrist, rubbing the bones of it between his strong fingers. "It's just, you only learned to kiss a couple weeks ago. What you're talking about is varsity-level sex; I don't want you to rush in to something you're not ready for."

"But I am," Cas insists. "I may not have the experience, but I have all the same human urges you do. More, even, because I have not yet learned to ignore them. Knowing you love me as I love you is such a relief; is it not normal to that celebrate with," he struggles with the phrase, "varsity-level sex?"

"We ain't exactly normal," Dean reminds him. And Cas must be entirely unable to keep the crestfallen look away, because Dean squirms under what he sees in Cas' eyes. "Uh, also," he amends, "maybe _I'm_ the one who's not exactly ready for the big leagues here."

"You have doubts?" If all humans vacillate like this, Cas is certain he'll go crazy.

"No, not about you." Dean shoots him a 'seriously?' look. "I've just never done—that, okay? With a dude, I mean. I know the basics, is I guess what I'm saying but—" He huffs a breath of air out, half-chuckle, half-sigh. "—damn it, Cas, I can't fuck this up. I'm responsible for you. Don't you get that?"

Cas blinks at him twice, then looks down at the creased sheets with a wondering smirk on his lips. Dean huffs. "What?"

"I was just thinking," Cas murmurs, "now you know how I felt when I first met you." He shakes his head. "Do you know I was trying to tell you that first day?"

"You mean the day you brought me back from hell? The whole glass-shattering, ear-bleeding thing?" Dean asks, and Cas nods. "I figured you were just screaming about destiny and whatever."

Cas smiles. "I was saying, 'Don't be frightened; you are my charge and I will love you and defend you to the ends of the earth.'"

Dean says nothing for a long moment. He looks stunned, his lips parted and his eyes crinkled at the corners. "Seriously?" he finally whispers. "At first sight, huh?"

"Well." Cas shifts under the worn bedsheets. "If you can call an angel's perception sight." Then, because he doesn't wish to deceive Dean, "And if you can recognize heavenly love as an emotion even close to resembling human love."

Dean kisses him, pressing close. "Don't short-sell it." He kisses Cas long and deep, and when Cas is keening and grinding his hard cock against Dean's hip, Dean flips on the mattress like an acrobat and swallows down Cas' erection while simultaneously offering up his own for Cas to suck. Cas whispers how amazed he is at Dean's cleverness; Dean tries to explain that the position is not one he invented, but Cas just says, "Maybe _you_ shouldn't short-sell it."

<><><><>

Cas is woken from a deep, contented sleep by the sound of Sam pounding on the locked bedroom door. "Get up," he's shouting. "Meg is here!"

Dean is already sitting bolt upright in bed, yanking on his jeans without bothering with his boxers. "How?" he shouts back.

The gunshots being fired in the front yard supersedes any answer Sam might give. Dean curses, throws a bundle of wrinkled clothes at Cas. They burst out into the hallway, Cas still pulling on his left boot, to find Sam already heading down the stairs. Bobby is in the foyer, shotgun in hand.

"The engraved invitations ain't going in the mail, boys! Get your asses to the basement pronto!" he roars, pumping another two rounds out the open front door. The scatter shot may slow down a demon, Cas knows, but it won't stop anything.

"What happened to the devils' traps?" Cas yells over his shoulder as they double-time it down the rickety steps. "Why aren't they stopping her?"

"Looks like we aren't the only ones with fancy counter-spells," Bobby grunts.

Cas passes through the heavy iron door first with Bobby right behind. He turns just in time to see the Winchester brothers framed in the doorway, their heads turned to face the top of the stairs. A curvy shape stands there in silhouette, a gravelly voice drawling, "I sure hope you got a prom dress in my size."

"Dean!" Cas reaches a hand out, takes a step back toward the doorway. He wants Dean inside safely, he wants to lock the door tight between them and Meg before it's too late. But he sees the brothers share a look, and before he can pull Dean into the room with him, the Winchesters slam the door shut.

Cas can feel his throat working. He looks to Bobby, who's just as wide-eyed and open-mouthed as Cas. Outside the door, voices rise until they're overtaken by the muffled sounds of violence: the sickening crack of a human skull against a wall and a shout of pain, definitely male.

He's at the door before he even knows what he's doing, his sweaty hands working at the huge metal ring that serves as a knob. "Hold on, Dean!

Bobby stops him with a hand on his shoulder, jerking him away from the door. "Cas, you can't just go out there! Those boys are trying to save you, ya moron. Now Sam said Meg is trying to take possession of you, that right?"

"Yes, she attacked us in town before I could get my tattoo," Cas spits out in a rush.

"Well, you step out of this room without that tat and she's gonna burrow straight down your throat. And that won't do Sam and Dean a lick of good, got it?" Bobby says this slowly, forming every word with care so Cas can follow. He's good at communicating with the panicked, Cas will give him that.

He nods. Something crashes just outside the room. Sam's voice cries out. A gun is fired. The house shakes. Cas surveys the steely room and its ramshackle contents.

"Do you have a knife?" he asks Bobby.

Bobby quirks a bushy eyebrow. "Is the Pope Catholic?"

<><><><>

This is what Cas sees when he finally wrenches open the heavy steel door: Dean is crumpled against the far wall under the wooden staircase, a stream of bright crimson cutting a swath down his left eye. He's grumbling under his breath and groping along the floor for his forty-five. Sam is nearby, his back to Cas, his hands clutched to his bleeding side. Meg stands amidst it all wearing a new body, a young woman with jet black hair and olive skin and a shredded motorcycle jacket.

Her dark eyes alight on Cas. "Decided to let me put you on like a body stocking after all?" She smirks at the sight of the knife in his hand, held in a fist at his side. "That won't even leave a mark, Castiel; you know better."

"I do," Cas says. He parts the panes of his unbuttoned shirt; his chest is smeared with blood, hot and red and sticky. There, carved into the flesh directly over his heart, is a five-pointed star within a perfect circle.

Sam perks his eyebrows at Meg. "Looks like no vacancy," he says.

Even with her new face, Meg's look of rage is a familiar thing. She clenches her teeth and her eyes flood to black. "You stupid son of a bitch."

"I am no longer connected to Heaven," Cas tells her. "If you wish to war with the angels, find another way."

Meg cocks her head at him. "You don't know? The angels didn't bother dropping you a note before they skipped town?"

"About what?" Cas growls, his irritation rising.

"Oh Cassie." The demon wags her head in mock surprise. "They have your angel juice all bottled up somewhere, just waiting to bring you back into the game. You think the guy upstairs is going to let you play house with the Winchesters for the rest of your life?" Her grin is like a lizard's. "Everyone in hell is taking bets on when you'll be forced out of retirement."

"You lie," Cas says, even as his heart slams into belief. He pictures Anna's grace, trapped in a mighty oak, waiting for her to find it again. He remembers being torn into a billion atoms only to be brought back, twice, by what angel whispers called the hand of God. Angels don't die, Balthazar had told him once, they just misplace their grace.

"Come on, ex-angel," Meg says, tossing her hair seductively. "What do you say? Let's give those assholes in Heaven the bird. We can still bring them down together."

Cas falters, his gaze meeting Dean's over Meg's shoulder. He knows exactly what his answer is, straight from the vocabulary Dean taught him. He returns his attention to the demon.

"Go fuck yourself."

Meg's face darkens and she rushes at him with a scream, but Dean is back on his feet, heading her off. Cas sees the gun being pressed to the small of her back, hears the shots firing _bam, bam, bam_ , no hesitation. And in likewise swiftness, he draws his blade across the demon's throat with practiced ease. She's not dead, but she is stopped cold and silent, held in place by Sam, whose hand is held out towards them.

Bobby chants the exorcism. The body falls limp on the concrete. And it's over. For now.

Dean wipes a hand across his bloody face, breathing heavily. He gestures to Cas' chest. "You need to quit it with the cutting," he says. "People are going to think you got issues."

<><><><>

The hills are a pale yellow, watery in the early morning light. Cas scratches lightly at his tee shirt-covered chest; the bandages underneath are making him itch. He squints toward the horizon.

 _Dean_ , is how he starts the letter, pencil soft and gray on the crisp sheet of white paper he'd found in the printer tray in Bobby's study. He had considered "Dear Dean" because that's how he's seen other humans start letters, but Dean is more than dear to him.

_I'm sorry._

He stops writing for a long moment and just stares at the page. It doesn't seem sufficient, those words. But they're important to say first, because they're true. He's sorry for drawing Meg's ire, for falling from grace, for ever stepping foot in Purgatory, for lying and scheming and for hubris. Above all, he's sorry for that. He puts the blunt pencil tip to the paper once more. Finishes the letter and leaves it folded under the Impala's windshield wiper. In his pocket are the keys to a rusted pickup, an automatic. He starts walking across the junkyard, shouldering his canvas knapsack.

_I have to go for a little while. If my grace is out there still, I need to find it. I don't know if Meg was lying or not but I have to try._

Dean's lessons covered the basics of driving, a skill he knew Cas would need in an emergency. The pickup isn't in perfect working order, but it will take him where he needs to go. He hopes Bobby won't mind too much. Cas slides into the driver's seat and buckles in. Keys the ignition. The radio is preset to classic rock. He swallows, looking at the silent house in the distance.

_This is something I must do alone. I'm a full-fledged human now, Dean, and I need to start acting like one. ~~Relying on you has been~~ You are a wonderful gift. I cannot thank you enough for what you've done for me. But this is my responsibility._

The truck's engine is loud and pops like pebbles on asphalt, but Cas doesn't see any lights go on in the house. The brothers and Bobby had been exhausted after their clash with Meg; they'll sleep without problems. Cas steers carefully out of the junkyard maze and onto the main road. When faced with the choice of heading north or south, he turns north. Going up seems only logical.

_Please do not try to find me. I will come back as soon as possible, I promise. You have to believe me when I say I will always return to you. Do you understand?_

In his bag are three changes of clothes, one tee shirt of Dean's, a slew of counterfeit identification cards, a granola bar, a toothbrush, his knife, a roll of fresh bandages, and three scammed credit cards. He remembers a time when he carried nothing more than his blade and the clothes on his back. It feels strange to need things. Cas reaches for the radio knob and turns up the volume. A man is singing about rolling on a river.

_Tell Bobby I'm grateful for his kindness, and try to be peaceful with Sam._

The road is a flat black ribbon draped over the yellow rise of hills and fields. Cas watches the world as he drives by. His eyes scan the horizon for a tree, perhaps an oak with great spreading arms. He wonders if he will sense it, if he will know at first glance that the tree is saying, "Welcome, angel." Will it even be a tree at all? It seems impossible he could ever find a needle in a haystack so large, but he's becoming used to doing impossible things.

_I love you, Dean. I love you, I love you, I love you. I will love you and defend you to the ends of the earth. Always._

What's one more miracle?

fin

  


>   
> 
> 
> Whew, this part really got out of hand! I hadn't planned on making this a series, but there it is. Thanks to everyone who left such great comments and crit on the first two parts, and thanks to [](http://jihime47.livejournal.com/profile)[**jihime47**](http://jihime47.livejournal.com/) for the beta and generally listening to me whine.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed superpowered!Sam. He was especially fun to write. I always wanted him to retain some of his abilities in canon mostly because I think superpowers are cool.
> 
> Anyway, Leaves of Grass!Castiel will return in Leave of Grass part 4, which is as-yet untitled and mostly unplotted. I love me some comments and criticism, if you'd like to leave some. Thanks for reading and I hope you had a good time.  
> 

  



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